


heat

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Face-Fucking, First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 05, Sensuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 06:57:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14806526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Without thinking, Dean strips the article over his head and tosses it in the odd direction of his duffel; the cooler air of the room is barely a reprieve once its discarded, but for now, he can put up with it, if it means he doesn’t have to sit in his own filth. What he needs is a cold shower, or to stand in front of the box fan on the windowsill, if it didn’t mean stirring up already humid air indoors.Castiel doesn’t speak to him for a long while after that, too focused with his tie and fiddling with his shirt cuffs; not uncommon, but it still unnerves Dean sometimes, how often Castiel fidgets, like he has somewhere else to be. Anywhere but here where Dean wants him, as much as Dean is loath to admit it. Because admitting he’s attracted to someone is one thing, but to an Angel, and Castiel, no less?On a list of things to get sent back to Hell for, that’s probably at the top of the list.





	heat

Never before has Dean encountered a piece of machinery that he couldn’t fix; this air conditioner, though, is a complete lost cause. Smoke sputters from the motor every time Dean flips a switch—any switch, actually—and the compressor rattles until he switches it back off. Perfect; just what he needs, to sweat to death in ninety-five degree heat in the shade, all because he just had to pick the cheapest motel imaginable. The poor building doesn’t even have a sign anywhere on the property; how Dean got so desperate to stop here in the first place is a question better left unanswered.

“It’s no use,” Castiel comments from bed farthest from the door, aimlessly fiddling with the knot of his tie. Not trying to loosen it, but more to give himself something to do, to take his mind off the unbearable heat. Dean can empathize. “Running or not, it won’t make a difference.”

Dean huffs, shakes his head. He knows that, but it’s the precedent of the thing. A running air conditioner means he doesn’t have to sleep in his own sweat, and he doesn’t have to continually spend time in the shower just to keep his core temperature from skyrocketing. Castiel could always help, but that’s an abuse of power; granted, with everything Castiel has endured for him, ridding Dean of a fever would be the least of his worries.

Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes of tinkering with fifty-year old machinery with a rusting screwdriver and pliers, and Dean finally gives up. He shoves both items back into his toolkit before standing, placing the box atop the single person table in the corner, tilting from the minor weight to one side. “I think there’s another joint up the street,” Dean says, wincing with the strain in his back. Sweat rushes down his spine as he moves, spilling into the waistband of his jeans; his shirt is already soaked through, wet underneath his arms and around his collar.

Without thinking, Dean strips the article over his head and tosses it in the odd direction of his duffel; the cooler air of the room is barely a reprieve once its discarded, but for now, he can put up with it, if it means he doesn’t have to sit in his own filth. What he needs is a cold shower, or to stand in front of the box fan on the windowsill, if it didn’t mean stirring up already humid air indoors.

Castiel doesn’t speak to him for a long while after that, too focused with his tie and fiddling with his shirt cuffs; not uncommon, but it still unnerves Dean sometimes, how often Castiel fidgets, like he has somewhere else to be. Anywhere but here where Dean wants him, as much as Dean is loath to admit it. Because admitting he’s attracted to someone is one thing, but to an Angel, and Castiel, no less?

On a list of things to get sent back to Hell for, that’s probably at the top of the list.

“We should bail,” Dean suggests. He steps into the bathroom to find a washrag, wiping away the sweat as best he can. Again, Castiel doesn’t entertain him. Doesn’t do much else in fact, other than looking down at his lap, hands held listlessly between his knees. “You got somewhere to be, man?”

“No,” Castiel eventually answers, casting his head to the watermarked ceiling. Dean follows the column of Castiel’s throat, beginning to redden from the heat, sweat-sheened and glistening. Fucking glistening—why did they have to get stuck here, of all places? “A storm is coming. We’re safer here than driving in it.”

Dean wipes his face again, hiding a scowl behind the rag. Because while Castiel is right, it’s not the answer he wants; what Dean wants is functioning central air and relatively close access to a bar, both of which he apparently won’t find in this town. But with the rain comes cooler temperatures; hopefully, Dean can make it until then.

“C’mon, then,” Dean starts, tossing the rag onto Castiel’s bed. “Least take some layers off.”

“I’m fine,” Castiel manages, a bit strained. Dean just rolls his eyes and sinks his knees into the age-worn mattress. “I don’t need your pity. I’ll be fine.”

Ignoring him, Dean tugs at Castiel’s coat by the shoulder straps; Castiel falls into his hold, shocked at first, then disgruntled. “Dude, Angel or not, you’re gonna get heat stroke,” Dean complains. He tries again, earning a noise that sounds eerily reminiscent of a growl; if this were a few months ago, Dean might have left Castiel alone, might have just walked off and told Castiel he could suffer on his own. Now, though, all Dean wants is to get his hands on Castiel in any manner possible, even if it’s for the sake of personal comfort.

Honestly, Dean is sweating just looking at him, and not purely out of the lust festering in his gut. How Castiel isn’t uncomfortable constantly, Dean has no idea; the poor guy wears three layers at all hours, no matter the season. Maybe four, if he’s got an undershirt on somewhere in there. Dean wouldn’t know. Hasn’t looked hard enough to find out, or gotten close enough to feel the warmth radiating off Castiel’s skin, aside from brief touches over fabric.

That isn’t enough, though. Swallowing, Dean tries a third time, slowly managing to work Castiel’s coat off of his shoulders, manhandling his arms out of his sleeves. “There,” Dean says, swallowing to calm the sudden rush of adrenaline in his veins. “Almost human now.”

Castiel sighs through his nose, but ultimately acquiesces. Even then, he fights, arms rigid when Dean jerks his suit jacket off and casts it onto the floor to mingle with his coat. “I don’t understand,” Castiel grunts, just as Dean stops to contemplate his next move.

Dean could go for the shirt, too; untuck it from Castiel’s pants, get his fingers past the zipper. Could breathe into Castiel’s nape while he palmed the softness of his cock, soon to be hard in his grasp. Fantasies—all fruitless fantasies, all of which Dean entertains on his own. Whether they come to fruition is for him to decide, and if he had his way, nothing would ever come of it.

Nothing can come of it—not now, not ever.

Sweat runs in rivulets down the back of Dean’s neck, along his spine; his heart hammers in his chest, pounding in his ears. He can’t do this, but he wants—Dean craves it, the simple notion of touch, of flesh yielding under his fingertips. Sex is a bad idea; not just with an Angel, but in this heat as well. Still, that doesn’t stop Dean from catching Castiel’s eye when Castiel looks over his shoulder, a question marked by a furrowed brow.

“I can take care of myself,” Castiel says, lower now. His eyes track Dean’s lips, and Dean licks them once, purely out of habit. “I don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not pity,” Dean replies. Castiel’s hand reaches back in his peripheral, cupping Dean’s jean-clad knee. Not for balance or composure; Dean swallows with the implication. “You’re just… hot, is all.”

Castiel hums at that, and if Dean had to give a name to it, he might call it conspiratorial. “If you think that’s the case,” he murmurs, leaning incrementally back into Dean’s space, “then do as you wish.”

 _Shit_. Whatever it means, Dean’s stomach clenches, the air in the room suddenly too stifling. Castiel wants this—Castiel is allowing him to do this, to strip him, to touch him like Dean has always wanted to. Dreams are nothing compared to the real thing. Slowly, Castiel turns to face the window again, and Dean follows him with his hands, pressing his palms to Castiel’s hips. Tentative, questioning— _do you want this_? _Am I allowed this_?

Whatever the answer, Dean rakes his fingers up the seam of Castiel’s shirt, over buttons and damp fabric and the faintest hints of muscle. Heat radiates off of him like a furnace, and Dean’s palms sweat even worse as he unclasps each button, exposing Castiel’s chest to where he can’t see. Not at this angle, but maybe if Castiel turned around. Dean closes his eyes, quells the knot in his throat. He can do this—he wants this, wants Castiel. Carnally, erotically, whatever the term may be.

Dean wants it all.

Castiel’s button-down comes free with little resistance, revealing the solid expanse of Castiel’s bare back, squared shoulders and scars from recent battles, and two slits running parallel of his shoulder blades. Wings, perhaps; not on this plane, but somewhere hidden, out of Dean’s reach. His mouth salivates purely from the idea, and briefly, he imagines sinking his fingers into the feathers, getting his mouth on them; maybe Castiel would be into it, would writhe under Dean’s hands and beg for more, would throw his head back and allow Dean to mark his skin as he pleased.

His cock twitches in his jeans; this is a bad, _bad_ idea.

“Dean,” Castiel says, simple as ever, but the heat there is unmistakable. “This isn’t allowed.”

“I know,” Dean says. He knees his way closer to Castiel until they’re pressed back to chest, Castiel’s neck tilted ever so slightly to the side. Cautiously, Dean runs his hands down Castiel’s front, just to feel him, to bask in the softness of bare skin. Under his palm, Castiel’s heart pounds; at least Dean isn’t alone in this, either. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t break the rules every now and then.”

Before Castiel can speak again, Dean runs his fingers over the zipper of Castiel’s slacks, palming over the definite curve there, pulsing hot in his hand. Still not enough—nothing will ever be enough, not even this. “This is a sin,” Castiel says, caught in a moan. Dean undoes his fly and slips his hand inside in lieu of a reply, earning another groan and a twitch of the hips; definitely hard, Castiel’s dick curving heavily in his boxers and beginning to leak in Dean’s grasp. “This is… forbidden, you understand.”

Dean nods, not really listening. “I don’t hear you stopping me,” he exhales, feeling Castiel shiver, all the way to his toes.

Gently, Dean mouths at the juncture of Castiel’s throat, tasting the salt there, swallowing down the noises Castiel makes. Nails rasp their way down Castiel’s chest again, through patchy hair and over scars, and Castiel follows him, chest beginning to spasm with his gasps, stomach fluttering under the lightest of caresses. Meanwhile, Dean continues to stroke him, thumbing the slit of Castiel’s cock and gathering up the liquid there, smoothing it over the tip. His own cock sits neglected in his jeans, and just barely, Dean grinds himself against Castiel’s lower back, just to relieve the pressure, to keep himself from throwing Castiel onto the bed and swallowing him whole.

“Tell me what you want,” Dean says, so close to an order but falling off at the end. Begging, more like it, begging Castiel to tell him what to do. No matter what, Dean will take it, will bend over if it means Castiel can get his hands on him, can ease the fire simmering in his bones. Castiel just moans, hips surging into Dean’s fist. “Tell me, Cas.”

“You,” Castiel breathes, winded. Dean nearly whites out, from one word alone. “You, your mouth.”

Dean has always had great awareness during sex: where to put his hands, how to move his hips, always attentive to his partner’s needs. How Castiel ends up on his back, though, is a complete mystery, but he’s there, slacks wide open with his cock hanging out of his underwear, right where Dean wants him. The rest of his clothing comes off easily, shoes and socks foregone as soon as they checked in earlier, and Dean tosses everything onto the floor and eases his way between Castiel’s legs.

Castiel really is beautiful, exposed like this: strong thighs and toned chest, every inch of him flushed with need. Castiel’s chest heaves when Dean kisses his navel, and a hand comes to rest atop Dean’s head, just petting, smoothing his fingers through sweat-soaked strands. “Why is this a sin?” Dean asks in all sincerity, peppering kisses to the vee of Castiel’s hips. Castiel doesn't answer immediately, too enrapt in Dean’s kiss to do much other than gasp. “Tell me, Castiel.”

“Angels and humans,” Castiel pants, gripping Dean’s hair by the root. Dean just lets him, mouthing his way down to the base of Castiel’s cock. “Our coupling is— _was_ blasphemy. Whether or not the rule still stands is— _Dean_ —”

“I got you,” Dean shushes.

Hands to Castiel’s hips, Dean spares him a glance before laving attention to Castiel’s balls, drawing one into his mouth; in return, Castiel growls, teeth bared, and Dean has a second to pride himself before Castiel yanks him upwards. Castiel kisses his mouth with all the intensity of a soldier returning from war, and Dean gives just as good as he gets, moaning into every press, teeth nipping lips and tongues gliding. Wet, hot— _too hot_ , too much to comprehend.

“Filthy,” Castiel whispers, his harshness betrayed by the pleasure of their hips grinding together, fabric against bare skin. “You defile me, Winchester. You taint me.”

“Talk dirty to me,” Dean laughs, nipping Castiel’s earlobe between his teeth. “What else?” Dean shoves down harder just to tease him, and Castiel bares his throat, fists clenched in the bedspread. “You can touch me, c’mon.”

Castiel does. Gently, at first, cupping Dean’s waist and guiding their hips together into a sinuous glide. For a while, all they do is kiss, swallowing down soft pants and even softer whispers; Castiel’s hands slip on the wet skin of Dean’s back, and Dean clings to Castiel’s face, thumbing over the curve of his cheeks, just below his ears. “I want you,” Castiel rumbles. He presses a finger to Dean’s lower lip, and Dean sucks it in without question, swirling his tongue around the digit, just to hear Castiel groan.

This, Dean knows. Knows how to lay himself prone, knows how to guide his partner where he wants them. Here, Castiel pushes him onto his back and straddles his face, allowing Dean to mouth at the crown of his cock, uncut and thick and leaking profusely, smearing across Dean’s lips. Castiel tastes like nothing, but it’s everything Dean craves in that one moment. The closeness, the weight of Castiel on him, the taste of his flesh, all melding into one.

“Happened to being a virgin?” Dean teases, extending his tongue. Castiel slides in easily, sloppy in the way he thrusts into Dean’s mouth. Shallow, but chasing a release he’s never experienced, a release only Dean can provide him.

Shaking hands grip the headboard, rattling in time with Castiel’s sighs; Dean wraps his arms around Castiel’s thighs and allows Castiel to thrust at his leisure, never too deep but right where Dean wants him, has always wanted him. “My Grace remains chaste,” Castiel says. Looking up, Dean watches Castiel bite the meat of his arm, stifling the noises rising from his throat, and somewhere deep, Dean prides himself in giving Castiel this. “You tempt me,” Castiel groans. For a fleeting moment, Dean watches his control falter and feels Castiel thrust even further inside, release not far off; he taps Castiel’s thigh twice, a signal he hopes Castiel understands.

Thankfully, he does; Castiel backs off and collapses onto his back, giving Dean the space to sit up and straddle Castiel’s waist again. This time when they kiss, Castiel reaches between them to palm the front of Dean’s jeans, earning a clipped shout and a rough thrust into Castiel’s hand. “You should undress,” Castiel suggests.

It would be the best idea in the world, if Castiel wasn’t so distracting. “Want you to fuck me,” Dean pleads, mouthing wetly under Castiel’s ear. “You know what that means?”

The look Castiel gives him is one of ardor, a fire burning behind blue eyes; Dean can’t help but watch, enrapt. “Yes,” Castiel says, and promptly flips Dean onto his back again.

Getting his jeans off proves more strenuous than Castiel’s slacks, Dean’s pants clinging to his legs from sweat. Castiel manages it, though, effectively yanking Dean’s briefs off with them and hurling them to the floor. Where, Dean doesn’t know; he’s too busy cataloging the feeling of Castiel’s lips cradling him, marking a path down his trembling chest. His nipples, Castiel finds particularly sensitive, and Dean thrashes when Castiel latches onto one, tonguing the nub to hardness and nipping, until Dean begs him to stop.

“How do you want this?” Dean asks during a reprieve, Castiel momentarily removing himself from the bed to find Dean’s lube. “Side pocket, right—there you go.”

Dean watches Castiel return, head hanging off the edge of the mattress, and flushes even deeper at the sight of Castiel’s cock, huge and bobbing between his legs. _That’s going in me_ , Dean thinks, just before Castiel maneuvers his way back between Dean’s legs, hoisting them up and around Castiel’s hips. “I want you to look at me,” Castiel urges, slick fingers stroking along Dean’s cleft. “Me and only me.”

“Yes,” Dean says, eyes closed.

It’s never really been like this, Dean considers, head thrown back at the first shove of Castiel’s fingers inside; just one at first, testing the waters. Normally, Dean turns over and lets guys go to town, as long as there’s condoms involved. But Castiel takes his time, stroking inside with two fingers and curling them, seeking what Dean knows is there, what he’s fingered himself when he’s had the chance. Dean nearly jackknifes off the bed when Castiel presses into it, stroking there mercilessly, all while Dean strings along a line of curses, interspersed with laughter. Because this—this is new, and different, and he never wants it to stop.

“Kiss me?” Dean asks once he can breathe again, Castiel’s clever fingers slowing to a more manageable rhythm. Three now, stretching him wide down there; a mess of lube coats his thighs. Castiel surges up to kiss him, dry hand caressing Dean’s cheek and urging him closer.

“How does it feel,” Castiel starts again, drawing Dean’s lip between his teeth, “to know you did this? You defiled me, Dean Winchester.”

Dean grins, intentionally clenching around Castiel’s fingers. “Pretty damn good,” he says. Castiel kisses away his smile and fingers his prostate again, harder this time, and Dean practically moans himself hoarse.

“Eyes on me,” Castiel reminds him, pressing a final kiss to Dean’s lips before pulling out and away.

There’s some fumbling after that, the condom Castiel brought over unexpectedly slippery in both of their hands. Too hot; the air is stifling between them, and Dean can barely hold on before his hands slip on everything he touches. Castiel manages to tear it open with his teeth and roll it on. This is it—This is what Dean’s wanted since the moment Castiel walked into his life, and now he can have it, however he wants.

How he wants is right here, hips in Castiel’s lap and Castiel pushing into him, an easy slide that ramps up the fire beneath his skin. Dean clings to Castiel’s back when Castiel begins to thrust, none too gently but everything Dean needs. Mattress springs creak under their weight; Dean smothers his moans into Castiel’s neck, rough and clipped and every bit as animalistic as he always figured.

For the most part, Castiel is gentle in his thrusts, never really maintaining a rhythm long enough for Dean to adjust to it, but never too hard for him to want to tap out. “ _Fuck_ ,” Dean pants, laughing breathily against Castiel’s mouth when they kiss. “Good at this, you know that?”

“I’m glad I live up to your expectations,” Castiel replies, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. “How close are you?”

Just the word sends a surge of heat through Dean; painfully, his balls contract, and Castiel surges up far enough to reach between them, rolling them in his hand. “Fuck, ‘m gonna—you gotta _stop_ —”

But Castiel doesn’t. If anything, Castiel only speeds up, taking Dean behind his knees and spreading him open, wider than Dean ever thought he could bend. Exposed, Dean revels in it, shame and pleasure burning him up, from his head to the tips of toes where they hang in the air. Fisting his cock only abates the flames temporarily, but not as long as Castiel looks down at him, mouth parted and sweat dripping from his hair, eyes rolling back.

He’s close, if not closer than Dean, and all Dean can do is stroke himself faster and pray he makes it to the end.

Castiel works Dean over methodically, and Dean begins to thrust back into him, at least as much as he can. This, this is as close as Dean has ever felt to another person—another creature, especially—in a long, long time, and in that moment, he hopes it never stops. He prays Castiel will continue to feel for him, to protect him, to adore him, for as long as they’re together.

Whether Castiel hears his prayer or not, Dean doesn’t know, but Castiel slaps a hand square in the middle of Dean’s chest anyway, just as his eyes begin to burn blue. The first wave of Castiel’s Grace envelops Dean just as his orgasm crests, Dean’s breath robbed from him as he comes into his fist and across his belly. Castiel follows not too far behind, not bothering to pull out as he thickens, pulsing deep with a long, arduous groan. Only then does Dean’s breath return, sight no longer black in the face of Castiel’s Grace glowing bright.

Bright enough to blow the bathroom light, apparently. Dean laughs as he comes down, an arm slung over his face and hips still writhing, even after Castiel has pulled out and trashed the condom. “Fuck, if it wasn’t so hot, I could go for round two,” Dean says, exhaling through his nose.

Castiel just offers him a grin from the edge of the bed, leaning down to peck Dean’s forehead. “There’s always the shower,” Castiel suggests, nodding his head towards the bathroom. Shower. A shower sounds good, especially if they can get the water bearably cold. Anything hotter, and Dean might pass out. “Or are you too tired?”

Dean scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Like you could tire me out,” he says, smoothing a hand down his stomach, only to be met with a drying mess of come and lube and sweat. God, he really does need a shower. “Think I might need a washdown, too.”

“We can arrange that,” Castiel says. He extends a hand and Dean rolls over to take it, dragging himself off the bed on shaky legs. “Or I could carry you.”

Impossibly, Dean’s face flushes darker. That—That, Dean will take Castiel up on.

**Author's Note:**

> But Ashley, aren't you supposed to be working on your book, you say? And to that I say, this has been bothering me for two weeks so here's some filth! Also I am super not ready for summer. ;A;
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


End file.
